All posts tagged humour

It’s me again. I’ve finally got some free time to write a new post. Contrary to what I thought would happen since I’ve been able to come back online, I’ve had no time to sit down and write and very little time to catch up on blog reading. Why? Because of THE BABY. Everything revolves around THE BABY. He’s four months old now – surely that’s old enough for him to look after himself but NO, he still needs feeding and changing and bathing and playing with, and in between the feeds and the changes and the baths and the playtimes his bottles have to be washed and sterilised, his clothes have to be washed and dried and sorted – ( SCRATCH MITTENS! Tiny little fiddly fucking things that are worse than SOCKS for losing their pairs. I HATE WASHING SCRATCH MITTENS but there has to be a constant supply of them or Buster would gouge chunks out of his face – and yes, his nails are regularly trimmed but have you ever tried making a baby’s fingernails completely UNPOINTY? Not going to happen) – and a thousand million other baby-related things that have to be done. It never ends. And that’s before I start cleaning up after Mary-Mona (which merits a whole new post of its own that I’ll do another day when I HAVE THE TIME).

People will buy my inventions because babies have an inbuilt BABY PRODUCT & CLOTHES MAGNET that works by controlling the minds of all the adult females around them so that when the adult females go shopping and spy baby products or baby clothes, we go ‘OOOO, LOOK, BABY STUFF!!!‘ and we buy and we buy and we buy, and we come out of the shop laden up with unnecessary SHITE and no money left to spend on ourselves. (My favourite, favourite baby product is a brand of colic drops called INFACOL. Infacol is my favourite product because it contains SECRET SWEARING in its name – INFACOL – INFUCKALL. Now that’s class). Cot, Moses basket, bouncy chair, bath, toys, steriliser, wardrobe, pram, etc etc etc, and all the toiletries and bum-changing stuff that comes with a baby – give me the days when you swaddled it in a blanket, stuffed it in a drawer or a shoe box, gave it a stick and a stone to play with, and cut up a few raggy clouts for its arse. Babies have too many things. Baby Buster has so many clothes he could open his own baby clothes shop (that’s if he was able to raise the capital by discussing a business loan with his bank manager, but seeing as his bank manager doesn’t speak Baby, it’s not possible yet). It’s NOT NECESSARY. Babies grow out of their clothes before they’ve worn them 3 times and they’re happier playing with a teething ring and a pair of singing sock glove-puppets (I do the singing – socks can’t really sing), than with their expensive brightly-coloured jingly-jangly toys. But still we buy ALL THE BABY THINGS WE THINK WE MUST HAVE.

So, yes, my inventions will FLY off the shelves and make me a fortune and then Mary-Mona and I can BUY A NANNY to look after baby Buster, freeing up our time to do other, less boring things like SLEEP because although I’m not as tired as I used to be before baby Buster started to sleep through the night (Mary-Mona had him sleeping through BEFORE HE WAS 2 MONTHS OLD and all the other mothers she’s met are as jealous as fuck), I’m still trying to catch up on my sleep.

Baby sleepless nights are different from normal sleepless nights because at any given second during a baby sleepless night I’d be perfectly capable of falling asleep if it wasn’t for THE BABY. Why do they need to be fed at night? Why do they need so many feeds in the first place? It would make more sense to give them one BIG feed to last 24 hours and then I could just GO TO SLEEP and set my alarm clock for 23 hours later. Also, one BIG feed would be a better indicator of when a baby is hungry – after the BIG feed their belly would inflate and they’d look like a little SPACE HOPPER and then over the hours it would slowly DEFLATE until it was back to empty – and what does empty equal? Hungry, that’s what.

One BIG feed would also solve the problem of having to regularly change baby’s nappy because having to change a baby’s nappy umpteen times a day should be included in the TORTURER’S HANDBOOK as number one on the torture list. Hideous things come out of babies. Horrific, ghastly things. Things poor Dotty (ME!) should never have to see or smell or touch, or get on my hands or in my hair (POO!) or down my cleavage (SICK!) or on my clothes (BOTH!). What vileness can match a baby’s full nappy or a bout of projectile vomiting? NONE. And the noises that come out of them – baby Buster does MAN-BURPS that a big fat BIKER would be proud of, and after he does a MAN-BURP he LAUGHS. And he farts like ten machine guns going off in unison – pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu. And he thinks it’s funny to kick his way through every nappy change, especially the horrible ones. And he likes to sneeze in my face when he’s having his baby porridge for breakfast. And he’s recently discovered he can spit – properly spit, not just his usual dribble – so avoiding an eye full of Calpol when he needs some medicine has become an art in itself in this house. Oh, and he’s started teething, so when he needs to chew on something and the closest something happens to be my FACE he becomes an ATTACK BABY, kicking and punching and repeatedly shouting ‘AAAAHHH‘ while he tries with all his might to gum me.

Oops, I’ve just noticed how long this post is. Oh well, it’ll make up for the posts I won’t be able to do until next time I get a free afternoon.

P.S. To all the depressy people reading this – if you haven’t got one, borrow a baby who smiles a lot to brighten your day, but only if it’s a beautiful cute baby with a beautiful cute smile that lights up the world and makes your heart dazzle. Ugly babies won’t help you with their ugly twisted little smiles, all you’ll feel is pity and sadness. And before anyone starts moaning about every baby being beautiful – NO THEY ARE NOT. To their mothers they might be, but anyone else with eyes in their heads can see an ugly baby for what it is – A FUCKING UGLY BABY.

To prevent me from writing every single one of my new posts about baby Buster I need to find other things to write about, but before I went on my 8 month long absence I wrote about EVERY subject and now I have very little to write about that I haven’t written about before. One subject I don’t think I wrote about back then was the exploitation of old-age workers in third world countries, so this post is about EGGS.

SOME DOTTY THOUGHTS ABOUT EGGS

Eggs are little miracles of life and nature. Oval, ovoid, ovum. Eggy-eggy-egg. I wonder if anyone has ever seen Jesus in an egg? I once saw Jesus in my ice cream scoop but he disappeared with the sun when it passed the corner of my house.

Eggs are good for you. Eat an egg for breakfast and you’ll be all proteined up for the morning because eggs are full of white and yellow protein and other white and yellow things your body needs. Eggs taste nice. Fried eggs taste nicest but only if they’re cooked in old bacon-flavoured beef fat with bits of bacon still floating through it. Yum. Poached eggs – I’ve never eaten them. They’re slimey. Boiled eggs have very complicated cooking instructions – I don’t make them. I DO like them if someone else makes them for me though. I like scrambled eggs too. But I don’t like ANY eggs if they’re cooked with little slivers of shell. Fresh eggs, straight from the arse of the hen? NO NO. I like my eggs clean, who wants to eat feathers and hen shite for breakfast? Eggs with tiny globs of blood or tissue in them – YUK! Double yolks – YUM!

I’ve never seen an oddly shaped egg. All eggs are EGG shaped. They come in different colours too, all sorts of colours, so many colours you could make an egg rainbow out of all the different colours and still have enough egg colours left over to make a generous quilt for those cold winter nights.

Did you know that eggs can be eaten MONTHS after their sell-by date if they’ve been kept in the fridge and if you test to see if they’ve gone rotten before you open them? The best way of testing them is to use the FLOATING METHOD – put the eggs in a bowl full of water – if the eggs float, they’re fine to eat, if they sink they’re off. Or is it the other way round? I forget.

Eggs are excellent missiles for all occasions. Raw eggs can be thrown at people or objects (WINDOWS! CARS!) when there’s no urgent need to hurt or damage the target but you have a desperate urge to make a mess and cause a little upset. Throwing a raw egg at someone or something makes a statement. It says, ‘I like you. You deserve an EGG!’

Hard boiled eggs, although they could never replace my favourite missiles (BRICKS!) in my affections, can be quite handy during a siege when you find yourself without other, more traditional weapons (BRICKS!) and you need something hard to throw. Hard boiled eggs are small enough to fit in the hand and they’re hard enough to do a fairly adequate amount of damage if aimed correctly (even if they don’t have corners), but the best thing about using hard boiled eggs as weapons is that Dibble can’t arrest you afterwards if you tell them you’re a people-phobic she-hermit who can’t leave the house so the only way you can contribute to society is by feeding the hungry and the only way you’re able to feed the hungry is by dropping food to them gently from your bedroom window – it isn’t YOUR fault they can’t catch, (saying this DOES work – Mother Teresa never got banged up for assault with a deadly weapon, did she?)

I hope you found this egg post informative and interesting. Treasure it. It might be the last post I ever write on anything but THE BABY.

Does anyone remember me? How long have I been gone? A long, long, long, long time. Many moons. Many suns. Many Cumberland sausages.

Where have I been? What have I been doing? You can make your selection from the following options …

OPTIONS

1. I’ve been without internet. Wireless-less because I couldn’t afford the bill and the phone fuckers cut me off until I paid up.

2. My ears got so bad that I REALLY REALLY couldn’t stand the noise of my laptop so I jumped on it and jumped on it until it was properly dead and I didn’t buy a new one until my lovely, lovely Audiologist sorted me out with gadgets and gizmos that are starting to make an IMPROVEMENT.

3. I fell into a catatonic comma – , – which was roomier than a full stop – . – but not as spacious as a question mark – ? – .

4. My brain collapsed and my head fell off.

5. I finished my novel, got myself an agent, got myself a publisher, went on a book launch tour and subsequently made a HUGE wodge of dosh that I invested in Cumberland sausages and now I’m living the high life and never have to worry about money EVER AGAIN and I’ve come back to my blog to BRAG ABOUT IT TO Y’ALL.

6. I married Branwell.

7. I was abducted by aliens who identified me as the most intelligent life form on Earth. They were correct.

Hello. It’s me. I haven’t been online since last week. Nope, I don’t know why – just the thought of turning on my laptop gives me a big dready feeling but I’ve been so bored today I thought ‘Right, Dotty, just TURN THE FUCKING THING ON,‘ so here I am with it turned on (for how long, I don’t know).

This is what’s happened in my week –

The death of an unliked relative.

The funeral of the aforementioned unliked relative. I didn’t go – I’m a people phobic she-hermit, I don’t do funerals. And I’m also not a HYPOCRITE.

A urinary tract infection that fucking hurts. A lot. And it’s made me so tired I keep sleeping – like Sleeping Beauty without the Beauty. I’m on my second lot of antibiotics, the first week’s worth were SHITE, they didn’t work.

I made a thing to eat that wasn’t Cumberland sausages. It had roasted BUTTERNUT SQUASH and SWEET POTATOES, and boiled PASTA (the pretty bows), and dry-fried lean MINCE, and DOLMIO LOW FAT BOLOGNESE SAUCE, and an ONION, and I baked it all together in the oven with some cheese on top. It tasted very nice.

I’ve been trying to find some books to give to the charity shop (because I have to clear a room) but I CAN’T FIND ANY BOOKS THAT I CAN PART WITH. I’ve been through the bookcases in my living room, the bookcases in my hallway, the bookcase on my landing, the bookcases in my bedroom, and the bookcases in my spare room, and I’ve looked through some of the stacks. But I haven’t started on the boxes yet so I might find one there.

Okay, I’ve had enough now. If you don’t see me beforehand, I’ll come back next week.

P.S. Last week I changed the comment thingy to allow your comments to go straight through because I’m such an ignorant cow I knew I wouldn’t be back online to approve and answer them. Sorry.

I’m back! Back on my blog, back in my house, back in this world without TOO much damage to my bodily parts.

Where have I been? Well, there are two answers to that question. First answer – I’ve been with Branwell. Second answer – I’ve been in hospital. I don’t believe the second answer though because I KNOW I was with Branwell, I have the scurvy to prove it, and I REMEMBER being with Branwell but I don’t remember being in hospital where Lottie insists I was (not until I woke up on Ward 23 and that was only just over a week ago). It’s more TRICKERY from Lottie – I thought she’d given up trying to drive me mad but nope, here she goes again – she keeps telling me the bouncy period I was in ended with me bouncing out of my bedroom window right into Intensive Care, but she’s lying – when I ACCIDENTALLY FELL out of the window Branwell caught me and took me on a little holiday to the Victorian seaside where we spent the days walking the beaches looking for pretty shells, and eating lovely cakes in the tea shops.

I’m sorry I couldn’t come online to tell you where I was – the Victorian seaside tea shops aren’t wired up for the internet, in fact NOWHERE in Dead World is wired up for the internet. I tried sending a letter to my blog so you’d know where I was but the Victorian post is STUPIDLY slow and if my calculations are right (and they won’t be, I’m shite at Maths) the letter will have reached no further than 1871 (probably May or June) – and it’ll arrive here in 2154 when we’re ALL living in Dead World so you’ll know what it says before it gets here.

I don’t know how they got me out of Dead World and up onto Ward 23. Branwell doesn’t know either, but he says I put up a good fight to stop them taking me. The first thing I remember of Ward 23 is sitting in front of a NEW HEADSHRINKER (not the one in the blackmail shagging photos Scotty took) in a big room that had only two chairs (those we were sitting on) and a little table. She was about 8 years old and had her hair in PIGTAILED PLAITS and her mouth was going YAP, YAP, YAP, YAP, YAP, and then the yapping turned into words and she was saying, ‘You’ll have to do a lot of mindful work to get past this, Dotty,’ and my first thought was, ‘WHY IS THIS FUCKING EMBRYO TELLING ME WHAT TO DO?‘

They’d been AT me, full frontal lobotomy or something, because my head was wrapped in a big bandage and my arm was in plaster and other bits of me hurt like a bastard. The new headshrinker said she hadn’t done anything to me, the bandages and the plaster cast and the PAIN was from when I bounced out of the window. LIAR. I know what they did. Experiments. Nasty experiments on my brain. And my arm. And the other painful bits. I was so shocked I jumped up out of the chair (slowly – more of a hoik than a jump) and she jumped up too and she said, ‘Violence isn’t the answer, Dotty,’ and I said, ‘Don’t worry, love, I never punch anyone who’s wearing MOTHERCARE,’ and she pressed a button that was dangling from a strap round her neck and two whitecoats came in and took me to a room with a bed in it. That was sometime last week and I didn’t get home until the day before yesterday.

I’ve got a lot of bloggy catching up to do, but after the experiments they did on me my brain isn’t functioning at its usual level of brilliance so I’ll do what I can and what I can’t do I won’t do. And thank you very much for the emails (sorry I couldn’t let you know where I was).

‘FUCK OFF! GO AWAY!’

But he wouldn’t go away, he kept knocking his weak little girly knock on my back door –

knock knock …….

knock knock …….

which hurt my ears the more he did it because even though I recognised it as a quiet little knock knock which wouldn’t be loud to others (hyperacusis brain retraining!! and tinnitus brain retraining! It’s amazing what they can do nowadays) to me it still sounded louder than the KNOCK OF THOR –

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

so when I reached the point where I couldn’t stand it any more I opened the door and shouted, ‘WHAT?’

‘Hello.’

‘FUCK OFF. WHAT DO YOU WANT?‘

‘I’ve brought some leaflets to show you.’

‘Eh?’

‘Can I come in? I’d like to show you what they’re all about. They’re very interesting,’ he said, and I was so stunned and confused and boggly-brained that when he stepped forward I automatically stepped back without thinking – and in he came.

‘Wipe your sandals,’ I mumbled.

He went straight over to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair as he said, ‘May I?’ and even though I didn’t say yay or nay or how’s your father, he sat down.

Then he said, ‘Come and sit with me.’

‘NO.’ Like fuck I was going to sit next to him – though I don’t know why I bothered standing as close to the open back door as I did, if he’d started attacking me I couldn’t have RUN OUTSIDE, could I?

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘A green tea, please.’

Cheeky bastard.

‘What do you WANT?‘ I repeated.

‘Well now. I came to show you these,’ and he started flapping the leaflets at me.

‘Leave them there.’ I pointed at the table. ‘You can go now.’

‘No.’

That was it –

PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OFF ME, GET OFF ME and whatever else I screamed at him, because he came over and TOUCHED MY SHOULDERS and pulled me forward so I was bent in two and he kept saying ‘ Breathe, breathe, breathe, slow, slow,’ and as the PANIC ATTACK started to ease he said ‘You’re fine, you’re fine, it was only a panic attack,’ – and it might ONLY have been a panic attack to him but I think I changed his mind on the ‘only’ when I spewed up all over his nasty sandalled feet – ‘oo! oo! My feet! oo! oo!’ he said, and he shuffled himself out of the door and into the garden and the second he was through the door I slammed it shut and locked it and bolted it and clipped all the padlocks into place, then I ran to the window to see if he’d gone but he hadn’t, he was in my back garden standing on one nasty sandalled foot WITH THE OTHER NASTY SANDALLED FOOT RAISED AND ABOUT TO GO INTO MY FISH POND THAT ISN’T A POND IT’S HALF A WHISKEY BARREL.

‘MY FUCKING FISHES!!!!’ I screamed and I BANG-BANG-BANGED on the window but he ignored me so I ran upstairs to the spare bedroom and opened the window and he was STILL KILLING MY FISHES so I looked round for something to throw at him but I couldn’t see anything throwable, my collections in that room are PRECIOUS, but my sniper rifle was propped up against my elephant’s foot umbrella stand and I knew it was loaded because what’s the point of having a sniper rifle if it isn’t ready to use when you need it?

So I shot him. But I didn’t shoot him in the head, I shot him in the arse-cheek because the way he was balanced, one nasty sandalled foot on the ground, the other KILLING MY FISHES, his arse presented the best target. He fell over, backwards, into my creamy-flowered Potentilla. No scream, they only sound that came out of him was a weird little ‘ooooo.’ But who says ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse? I’ve never known anyone to say ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse, they usually scream blue murder – I had one bloke (a cold-caller – energy suppliers) who wouldn’t stop screaming, ‘MURDER-MURDER-MURDER-MURDER,’ till the ambulance came and took him away.

I rang the Big Chief Inspector and told him to add timothy to my tally and to tell his 999 operators to ignore any calls from or regarding him – I didn’t want the nuisance of the Armed Dibble Unit and the megaphones again (the brain retraining hasn’t covered police megaphones yet), and nosey neighbours who want to know why they’ve been evacuated off the street. The Big Chief Inspector asked if I was okay and I said, ‘I am now,’ and he said, ‘That’s all right then. Don’t worry yourself any further, Dotty dear, I’ll sort it all out at this end. Go and have a lie down.’

So I did have a lie down. And I had a little sleep. And when I woke up and looked out of the spare bedroom window, timothy was gone and I could see down into the whiskey barrel where my two fishes were swimming around like nothing happened, and when I looked at them through my binoculars they seemed as happy as fishes can be. Bless their little golden fins.

So this last week or so has been UP UP UP UP UP which is why I haven’t been around much and why I haven’t read many of your blogs and why I had FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT unopened emails in my inbox this morning, and that’s not counting the post notifications I’ve already opened even though I didn’t visit the blogs to read the rest of the posts, but fuckitty-doo, I’ll get round to sorting them out at some point and I’ll get round to reading your blogs at some point too, probably a month late on the posts by the time I do read them.

Anyway, back to what I was saying – I haven’t had a bouncy week for AGES and this week’s been very bouncy, I’ve been online shopping, I’ve been outside shopping, I’ve been making wishlists for when I next go shopping, and I’ve had some parties and I made a new blog, and Branwell asked me to marry him, and THE BERSERKERS did nine little dances for me and the youngest BERSERKER broke her wrist when I got her to do the splits on top of my clothes-horse but I drew a picture of Winnie-the-Shite on her cast so she’s happy as diddly-dum and she can still dance.

Remember how Lottie divorced Fat-Fuck when she found out he was shagging some bewer from work? Well get this – Lottie’s got a new a boyfriend. He’s called timothy. Says it all, doesn’t it? I know people can’t help their names but if I was called timothy I’d shorten it and replace the ‘i’ with an ‘o’ or better still I’d give myself a nickname like MAN or BAD BASTARD or FUCKING NUTTER WHO’LL KNOCK TEN BELLS OUT OF YOU IF YOU EVER CALL ME A WUSS AGAIN.

Lottie calls him timmy and just writing it has nearly made me heave up the Cumberland sausage sandwiches I had for my dinner. When she brought him round I couldn’t help myself, I blurted out, ‘OH MY FUCKING GRANNY’S GUMS, what the fuck are you doing with a plonker like him?’

And she said, ‘Do you know what you are, Dotty? A nasty bitch.’

And I said, ‘Yep, that’s true. And you’ll do well to remember it because if you bring that streak of piss to my house again I’ll BATTER HIM. And I’ll batter YOU for having him as a boyfriend.’

I made him stand outside the back door while we had our APPLE PARTY (I got THE BERSERKERS to pick all my apples before they rot off) because he looks like Nicholas Lyndhurst as Uriah Heep except he was wearing sandals and combat shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘FREE EVERYONE’ and he scares the bejesus out of me.

*

Lottie’s new boyfriend, timothy the creepy fucker.

*

Guess what he does for a job? Go on, guess.

NO, you’re WRONG, he’s not an accountant, he’s a fucking SOCIAL WORKER. To be sociable I asked him ‘So how many kids have you snatched away from their families, then?’ and do you know what the fucker did? He SMILED at me, one of those smirky, patronising LIBERAL smiles that make you want to SAW THE FACE OFF the bastard but because THE BERSERKERS were there I didn’t saw his face off, I just gobbed in his cup of tea (TEA!! when there’s ABSINTHE to drink!!!) and squirted a bit of Mr Muscle Drain Cleaning Foam into the fresh cream in his elephant foot bun.

‘You can’t be serious about him,’ I said to Lottie when he’d skipped off down the garden to help THE BERSERKERS carry the apple basket.

‘Why? Stop being so horrible to him,’ she said.

‘I can’t help it.’

‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

‘Yes he has. He’s got a name that doesn’t deserve a capital letter. And he’s scary. And he’s a social worker. And if you end up marrying him and having his babies he’ll want to give them names like Inigo and Milo and Nimrod and Rupert and Cosmo and Arlo and Jago and Barnaby and if it’s a girl he’ll want to call it Jocasta or Florence or Clarissa or Clementine or Philippa or Cressida or Octavia or… ‘

And she starts yapping on about how she hasn’t been seeing him for long so I shouldn’t even MENTION marriage or I’ll scare him off and she really, really likes him and the girls really, really like him and he’s the best thing that’s happened to her for YEARS, in fact the best thing that’s EVER happened to her, and she thinks she doesn’t just LIKE him, she thinks she LOVES him and she never thought she’d find love again, and if I do anything to spoil it she won’t speak to me for the rest of her life (tempting, that one).

So I promised I’ll be nice to him. And I tried (honest), but when Lottie went upstairs to the loo and I was standing at the back door with my ciggie and I asked him if I could be a bridesmaid because Lottie’s booked the church for next week, he SMILED at me again and he said, ‘Can I just say something, Dotty? Quite a few of my clients have mental health differences. I understand what you’re going through. You’re so brave.’

?

?

?

Brave?

Understand?

‘UNDERSTAND AND BRAVE THIS, YOU MIDDLE CLASS TOFU-SUCKING ECO-ARSED TWAT,’ and I kicked him in the goolies and hissy-whispered, ‘Now FUCK OFF and don’t come back,’ and he did, he looked up at me from his kicked-in-the-goolies bent double on the ground position like I was the most pitiful thing he’d ever seen, then he got himself up off the ground and he fucked off, not very quickly, he was hobbling and holding his groin. No dignity.

And when Lottie came downstairs and saw he wasn’t there she also looked at me, and she looked at me, and she looked at me, and she looked at me, and then, without saying a word, she went into the garden, got THE BERSERKERS, and they all fucked off too – WITHOUT BRINGING THE REST OF THE APPLES IN so now half my apples are rotting on the tree and I don’t have enough to make all the apple sauce and apple pies I usually make.

I’ll have to go now, I want to write a letter of complaint to Social Services about granola-tim to tell them how he called me a FUCKING PSYCHO and a MENTAL BASTARD and a LOONY and a WINDOW LICKER and SPECIAL. Not that it would bother me if he had, but it’ll bother THEM – when they get my letter they’ll all fall down in a weeping heap, wringing their hands and crying ‘How could he? How could he?’ and he’ll be sacked from his job and all he’ll have to live on are the ten bags of muesli he received as last month’s salary.

SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOPPING. Proper shopping, not online shopping. Lottie took me to 24 hr Tesco on Thursday morning, not my usual 24 hr Tesco, we drove a bit further and went to 24 hr MEGA TESCO and I bought LOADS OF GOOD STUFF, too much to list but my cupboards and my fridge and my freezer are overflowing and I’ve got some new clothes and eight pairs of FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes and boots, and three new ladles, and a new set of pans with COPPER BOTTOMS so I can’t easily burn the arse off them, and BOOKS – loads and loads of new books, and a little hand blender, and a tin with a picture of cakes on it, and flowers, I bought some flowers, and some silver pins for my noticeboard, and a SPINNING CAKE PLATE, I’ve never seen them before – you put your cake on it and SPIN THE PLATE so people can cut their own slice or you can cut it easily without having to pick up the plate, and a banana holder, and six MULTI-COLOURED MOOD CANDLES that give off different coloured lights – how do they DO THAT? And a new little telly, not a dear one, I don’t see the point in paying a load of money for a TELLY or buying those big fuck-off tellies that show Christian Bale’s wrinkles, I want to see him WITHOUT WRINKLES but nowadays with the pictures being so clear you can only see him without wrinkles on a little telly so that’s waht I bought. And NOTEBOOKS. I had a stock-up on notebooks, black A5 spiral bound notebooks, and I bought some pens and folders and a new red hole-punch because I don’t know where my old blue one is, the last time I saw it it was on my desk but some fucker must have nicked it because it hasn’t been there since the last time I saw it.

And on Thursday night I had a little tea-party with Lottie and THE BERSERKERS and they stayed over and on Friday we had a BALLOON PARTY to use up all the balloons I bought, and they stayed over again last night and this morning they went home.

Now I’m skint and I owe Lottie four hundred quid so I can’t do any more live shopping and I promised Lottie I wouldn’t buy anything else, but hey-ho I’M ON THE INTERNET and so is AMAZON.

I’ve been calm lately, haven’t I? Calm like a calm thing, all sweetness and light and peace and serenity like a zen buddha’s comfortable old ARSE. Politeness personified.

Nice Dotty.

Mild Dotty.

TAME Dotty.

And then yesterday some IGNORANT FUCKER OF A SO-CALLED PROFESSIONAL HAS TO GO AND SPOIL IT ALL. AND INSTEAD OF BATTERING THE BASTARD WHO NEEDED BATTERING, I ENDED UP BATTERING THE FUCK OUT OF MY LITTLE TELLY TO MAKE THAT SMUG DIRTY BASTARD DER FUHRER CAMERON’S FACE (SPIT SPIT SPIT) GO AWAY.

Yesterday I waited THREE AND A HALF HOURS for a phone call – can you imagine what state I was in by the time the phone finally rang? I’ll tell you, NOT A FUCKING GOOD ONE – panic attacks BEFORE the due time of the call, panic attacks WHEN THE CALL DIDN’T COME, panic attacks in the THREE AND A HALF HOURS until the call DID come. And in between the panic attacks was the VOMITING and the FRUSTRATION – a nasty, pacey, shouty frustration that turned into A MURDEROUS FUCKING RAGE but no one was here for me to murder so when I saw that BASTARD OF A NAZI WANNABE (SPIT SPIT SPIT) on the news I SNAPPED and I picked up the first thing to hand (my brass candlestick) and I MURDERED MY LITTLE TELLY and I HALF MURDERED MY NICE CHAIR and I KICKED THE FUCK OUT OF MY NICE SETTEE and I BROKE THE GLASS CABINET my stuffed owl, Bartholomew, lived in and DIBBLE came banging on the door but the wankers couldn’t TOUCH ME because I have IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE (I can’t be arsed doing a link so you’ll have to do a search for DIBBLE in my search box if you want to know how I got IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE). Dibble fucked off sharpish after I’d put in a HARASSMENT COMPLAINT against the NOSEY TWATTING ARSEWIPES NEXT DOOR who’d reported me – AGAIN. Don’t fuck with Dotty, NEIGHBOURS, or you’ll come off worse, everyone does.

Why do PROFESSIONALSalways make people wait? Why do they have no concept of PUNCTUALITY? Why do they TREAT PEOPLE LIKE TWATS? It doesn’t matter what profession they’re in, they’re all the same – FUCKING RUDE, DISCOURTEOUS, BAD-MANNERED SKANKS who think their time is more important than anything else. And when they’ve made you wait they expect you to be GRATEFUL they deigned to deal with you at all.

It’s September. I’ve just noticed. Why does time go by so quickly in years and months but the minutes and hours and days just drag and drag and drag?

Anyway, hello September. It’s nice to see you again. I like your colours and your coolness and your promise of longer nights and shorter days and CHRISTMAS – I love Christmas when I’ve got the energy and the give-a-fuck (and the money) to love it and to do it all properly which I haven’t done for the last couple of years because of BEING MENTAL. I hope I’m not too mental for it this year.

September, September, September – I’ve been doing this blog for just short of nine months, the same amount of time it takes to grow a baby human. Is it a boy or a girl? Don’t be stupid, it’s not a BABY it’s a BLOG – so don’t rush out and start buying bonnets and bibs because THEY WON’T FIT, you’ll be wasting your money, you should spend it on presents for ME instead.But take note – I don’t want any of your PLASTIC TAT or NASTY PERFUMES, you should get me RUBIES, DIAMONDS, EMERALDS, PEARLS, SAPPHIRES (not OPALS, they’re unlucky), and BIG BOTTLES of COCO CHANEL (the only perfume I wear), or a new LAPTOP, or a new HOUSE, or you could just send me the money and I’ll choose my own presents so you don’t have to go to the bother of returning them when I open them up and shout “WHAT’S THIS FUCKING CHEAPCRACK SHITE SO-AND-SO HAS SENT ME?” and then I parcel it up again and send it back to you WITH NO STAMP ON IT.

And don’t be a meanie, don’t think I’ll be embarrassed by your generosity – yes I WILL be embarrassed but I’ll get over it, I have to learn to deal with negative emotions so the more generous you are the more you’ll be HELPING A MENTAL IN HER RECOVERY FROM HER MENTALNESS and if you’ve ANY COMPASSION IN YOU your reward will be a nice, warm, charitable glow in your benevolent little heart.

And it’ll be good practice for when Christmas comes and you have to GET ME MORE PRESENTS.

I have his name. He gave it to me. He wrote it in the dust on the fourth bookcase in the line of bookcases that run across the back wall of my living room.

Wait a minute, I’ll tell you what happened from the beginning or I’ll get muddled up.

The other night I left him a note on the table in the hallway. Next to the note I placed my ammo which consisted of NONE of the ammo I ordered from online 24 hr Tesco – they wouldn’t accept the order because I didn’t have any money in my bank to pay for it. Stingy fuckers, they could have let me owe it to them, it’s not as if £27.94 would BANKRUPT them, is it? Anyway, this is all the ammo I had –

and over these pieces of ammo I exuded the last remaining bit of GOODNESS I had in me.

This is the note I left. I wrote it with a purple pen because I couldn’t find a blue one. Or a black one. I don’t know where they’ve gone –

Dear DEMON,

I’ll keep this short and to the point –

FUCK OFF.

Love Dotty xxx

And then I went to bed.

When I got up yesterday morning I knew something was different. I could feel it. And I could SEE it because there was writing all over my walls and in the dust that coats everything and is NEVER disturbed. It took me ALL DAY to piece together what he had written into some sort of coherent thing and I’m still jiggling the sentences. But this is what I have so far —

GOOD LADY OF MEATLESS DEATH SAUSAGE, WORTCUNNING QUEEN OF SOIL AND SEED. I DIE. I DIE.

NYAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

OLD IS MANGLEBRAIN, OLDER THAN EARTH, OLDER THAN LIGHT, OLDER THAN DARK, OLDER THAN ALL BUT THE EVER-LOVED AND THE EVER-DREADED.

FLESH OF MOON AM I, BONE OF STARS. FOUL FIEND OF ASTAROTH, PRINCE OF SLOTH, CRIMINATORE OF THE CRIMINATOR, I AM THIS, THAT AND THE OTHER.

DJINNEE AM I, BLACK BEING OF THE BLACK FIEND, EVER-DREADED, EVER-YEARNED. WISHES TO GIVE, WISHES TO GRANT, ONE WISH, TWO WISH, THREE.

COME, AID ME. PULL MANGLEBRAIN OUT FROM THE SIDEBOARD INTO THE WORLD, INTO THINE VAPOURS OF VIRTUE AND GOOD. IT CALCIFY MY HEART TO LIVE BY THE KISS-KILL, RED DEAD, THRUST-FORCE OF MY SHARP CLAW, RIP RIP RIP, AH THE LOOK IN THE EYES, CORPSE, CRUMPLE OF FLESH AND BONE, ALL GRACE, ALL DIGNITY GONE, THINE SOULS A BLISTERED SADNESS ON MY PLATE, TASTE LIKE LOVE OR CHICKEN, BWOK, BWOK, BWOK, BWOK, BWOK.

BLACK HELL, NO MORE MY HOME. SCRAT, SCRAT, SCRAT. GIFT TO YOU OF SIGIL AND NAME, MANGLEBRAIN REX.

MANGLEBRAIN YIELDS TO MALEFICIA VICTORIOUS.

COME, COME. RELEASE ME.

He’s written other words and sentences (on my fucking kitchen units, the vandal) but they don’t make any sense. So what do you think I should do, let him out or leave him there? I think he’s trying to trick me.

MY GOOD, STURDY HIKING BOOTS THAT I HAVEN’T WORN FOR YEARS — to STOMP ON THE DEMON or to KICK THE DEMON if the need arose.

So, suitably dressed, I set about laying my traps —

First, I substituted all my Cumberland sausages for the LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN SHITE SAUSAGES I’d cleverly and cunningly ordered from the online 24 hr Tesco (that is one BIG Tesco – the shop must be the size of Ireland!) and that I had delivered yesterday afternoon (Branwell answered the door).

Next, I substituted all my Hobnobs for ROUND RYVITAS (HA HA HA HA) that were also delivered from online 24 hr Tesco.

Then, I went upstairs and sat on the floor directly below the LOFT HATCH. I crossed my legs like a proper YOGI, stretched my arms into the air and touched the tips of my fingers together to make myself into a TRIANGLE and I sat there all night EXUDING GOODNESS. I exuded such great amounts of GOODNESS the house nearly floated away. I couldn’t believe I had that much GOODNESS in me, (it isn’t there now, it’s gone, I exuded it all out), SHEDLOADS of GOODNESS that I aimed up into the air, through the loft hatch and INTO THE DEMON.

It didn’t work. At least it didn’t bring the DEMON out of the loft – BUT, while I was being a TRIANGLE, exuding GOODNESS, the DEMON started singing. It sang –

Now, I need to tell you something about HOW he was singing – he was singing in TONGUES and one of the tongues (the red bits) was MINE – and what I want to know is HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT? It sounded like Demon Duelling Banjos with words, him-me-him-me-him-me but my mouth didn’t move AT ALL, it stayed WIDE OPEN all the time I was there (to exude GOODNESS) and anyway I was wearing my GAS MASK and the way I’d put it on over my WIDE OPEN MOUTH meant there was no way on this earth that I COULD have closed my mouth, it was STUCK OPEN and no one can sing with a STUCK OPEN WIDE OPEN MOUTH unless they’re some sort of genius ventriloquist and there aren’t any genius ventriloquists, you can ALWAYS see movement.

But last night wasn’t a COMPLETE waste – he’s given away his EXACT LOCATION in my loft. He’s living in the old sideboard that belonged to Granny Euphemia and when Granny Euphemia died she left it to my dear dead Daddy and when my dear dead Daddy died he left it to me but I don’t like it, it’s fuck ugly and riddled with woodworm (HA! I just wrote WORMWOOD instead of WOODWORM because I’m so used to writing WORMWOOD. I changed it). Also, it looks as if maybe I’m starting to get to him a bit, disconcert the little fucker. But he’s a stubborn one. This morning I’ve been back to online 24 hr Tesco to order more AMMO. Here’s a list of the ammo I’ve ordered —

And I was thinking of ordering a copy of Fifty Shades of Shite so the DEMON would get the impression I’ve read it, but nope, I couldn’t do it, a little voice in my head kept arguing with itself –

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

and the DEMON won.

So now it’s a waiting game. A battle of wills. Dark versus light, good versus bad (erm, which side am I on?), saintliness versus evil. Dotty versus Demon.

BRING IT ON, FUCKER. NO ONE BEATS DOTTY. NO ONE AND NO THING. NOTHING.

N.B. — In case it’s gone unnoticed, you should take note that I’ve used the word ‘versus’ and not the abbreviation of the word ‘versus’ which should be a small ‘v’ but is now usually shown as a capital letter when, for example, a football match is being advertised —

LIVERPOOL V EVERTON

Not only is the word ‘versus’ abbreviated to an incorrect capital ‘v’, it’s also SPOKEN as the letter ‘v’ (vee) by STUPID ILLITERATE SLOPEY-BROWS ON THE TELLY —

LIVERPOOL VEE EVERTON

Ah, fuck it – I might just keep the DEMON and get him to spew some vile bile and brimstone over ALL THE STUPID PEOPLE.

I’ve got pins and needles in my foot – I was sitting in a funny position and I didn’t feel it going numb, I didn’t know anything was wrong but then I stood up quickly and OUCHFUCKINGHELL—- TIMBER I fell down on the floor and walloped the top of my arm on the coffee table, just above my elbow, and then the PINS AND NEEDLES started and I hopped around the room going AH AH AH AH FUCK AH AH AH but my foot kept touching the floor because I can’t hop, I’m not a fucking RABBIT, so I sat down on the stairs and tried thumping my calf but that didn’t work, so I hopped into the kitchen to get my brick and I sat on the kitchen chair and bent down and slam-slam-slam-slammed my brick on my foot, but that didn’t work either because it’s not a PINS AND NEEDLES IN MY FOOT brick, it’s a HEAD-SHAPED brick for HEADBANGING so I don’t know why I thought it would work in the first place but PINS AND NEEDLES make you DESPERATE and you’ll do anything to get rid of them because do you know what it feels like to have PINS AND NEEDLES? I’ll tell you what it feels like – it feels like you’re being stabbed with JAZILLIONS of mini PINS and NEEDLES, that’s what it feels like, and it’s HORRIBLE so because I couldn’t think of anything else to do I thought ‘Dotty, distract yourself and they’ll go away,’ so I came to do a post about it to distract myself until they go away.

I haven’t been able to come online much in the last few days because I’ve had Summer Double Pneumonia and I felt like SHITE. I lost my voice too so there wasn’t much point trying to write a post because you wouldn’t have been able to hear me, my voice was so FUCKED I thought I’d turned into THE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE WHISPERER every time I tried to coax my Cumberland sausages to hop up onto the grill and cook themselves so I could have something to eat.

You don’t know what it took for me to do the Shitey Sunday Picture Post yesterday – the SHEER AND ABSOLUTE SUFFERING involved, the BRAVERY and the SELFLESS PUBLIC-SPIRITEDNESS (is that a word?? spiritness?? spiritidness?? – see how ill I am?). I crawled from my bed, crawled down the stairs, pulled myself up onto the chair and DID A POST, all while I was DYING. Now that’s what I call DEDICATION. Too fucking right it is.

Guess what? I’ve passed the 500 followers mark. 502 to be precise BUT NO FUCKING BADGE FROM WORDPRESS – AGAIN!! Also, since the week before last, they’re not putting my posts in the TOPICS or TAGS or CATEGORIES or whatever the fuck they call them. They don’t like me. They HATE me. They wish I had DIED OF DOUBLE PNEUMONIA so they could have their nicey-nicey Blog World back again without ME in it to spoil everything. It’s DISCRIMINATION AGAINST MENTALS. Actually, that’s true because I’ve just had a thought – HOW MANY MENTAL BLOGS HAVE BEEN FRESHLY PRESSED? None, that I know of (correct me if I’m wrong). I don’t mean ME, (that’ll never happen, I’m too much of a gobshite), I mean the GOOD mental blogs, the serious ones. Hmmm.

I’m going to lie down again. I’m still dizzy.

P.S. If you hear a croaky sound when you’re reading this don’t think it’s your computer that’s about to blow up, it’s only my voice starting to come back.

DISCLAIMER – If your computer DOES blow up after you ignored any odd sounds IT’S NOT MY FAULT so fuck off with your solicitors and your ‘I’ll sue Dotty,’ and your ‘I’ll be rich for the rest of my life,’ – IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN, YOU FUCKING NUMPTY – the courts will end up giving ME all of YOUR money because you’re STUPID.

in my washing machine – I haven’t told you about my washing machine because the general consensus is that people who hide in their washing machines are EVEN MORE MENTAL than people who don’t hide in their washing machines but might still hide in their tumble dryers. I don’t really see the difference, they’re both used for laundry.

in my wardrobe – a small part of my collection of self-help books lives there. The other parts of my self-help book collection live in the stacks on the stairs. My clothes are in – hang on, where ARE my clothes? I know where some of them are, who moved the rest of them?

on top of my wardrobe – I can’t hide there any more because in order to do my flying I had to demolish the structure I’d built to enclose the space between the top of my wardrobe and the ceiling, and I need to keep it demolished or I won’t have anywhere to take off from.

in my air raid shelter that I built under my kitchen – what’s down there? I can’t remember. I think I put some collections down there but fuck knows which ones. I’ll have a look later when I can be arsed.

in the new wheelie bin I conned the council into giving me – I told them someone had nicked my second wheelie bin so they’d bring me a brand new one when really I’ve never had two wheelie bins, I’ve only ever had ONE. And no, I haven’t made a going-outside breakthrough, my brand new wheelie bin is in my kitchen next to my cooker where it’s nice and warm.

in my loft – I don’t like going up there for three reasons – SPIDERS and MOTHS and THE TRAMP WHO MIGHT BE SECRETLY LIVING UP THERE and sneaking in and out when I’m not looking, and stealing my CLOTHES (YES! that’s where they are!!!!!!!) and stealing my Cumberland sausages when I’ve cooked a big batch and put some in the fridge but when I go to eat them the next day they’re NOT THERE because the FUCKING THIEVING RONKER IN MY LOFT HAS STOLEN THEM AND SCOFFED THE LOT and he’s stolen my Asda Toffee Cheesecakes too because I had FOUR in the fridge yesterday and now I don’t have ANY because he must have crept down in the night and ATE THEM and put the empty tubs OUTSIDE IN THE BIN because he knows I don’t go outside so I won’t see the evidence. My Asda Toffee Cheesecakes that I was saving for after my tea tonight. BASTARD. When I catch him I’ll Asda HIS fucking price.

I know everything there is to know about KNOWING NOTHING AT ALL which qualifies me to dispense as many wise words of wisdom as I feel like dispensing to educate the people who think they know everything about EVERYTHING.

I’ll begin with some well known idioms.

A fool and his money is a good friend to have.

A leopard can’t change his socks.

Every cloud has a bigger cloud following it.

A picture paints a thousand NOTHINGS because pictures can’t paint, you twat.

An apple a day keeps the dentist busy because eating so much natural sugar will ROT YOUR TEETH.

If the shoe fits, find the other one – one shoe is USELESS unless you only have one foot.

Don’t put all your eggs in your mouth at once. You’ll choke.

Out of sight, out of sight.

Blood is thicker than Absinthe, but it doesn’t taste as nice even when you combine the two to make a cocktail.

A bird in the hand is worth ME PUNCHING YOU IN THE NECK. DON’T TOUCH THE LITTLE BIRDIES, YOU’LL SCARE THEM.

Feel free to add your own.

P.S. Yesterday I had a tomato with my breakfast Cumberland sausage sandwich. Today I had another tomato with my breakfast Cumberland sausage sandwich. I might have one again tomorrow and see where all this healthy eating takes me. Fuck, I might end up eating FRUIT in a few months time if I carry on like this.

!wOw!

I’ve discovered STICKY NOTES! Big bright pink ones! I found them on my desk but I didn’t buy them (I wouldn’t buy PINK ones). They’re BRILLIANT! They stick to paper when they won’t stick to anything else – doors, floors, windows, heads, clothes, cups, ashtrays, ANYTHING! It doesn’t matter how many times you try to stick them to something else, they don’t lose their ability to STICK TO PAPER even when they APPEAR to have lost all their stickiness, NO THEYHAVEN’T, they’re conserving it, they’re saving it for PAPER! But how do they know to conserve their stickiness for paper? And how do they know when they’re ON PAPER and not on wood or metal or plastic or skin?

The £148m should have been MINE. It WAS mine, I asked the Universe for it – when Andy Murray won the Gold I dug out my Cosmic Ordering book because I thought if Cosmic Ordering worked for Andy it’ll work for me, and I’ve been Cosmic Ordering my arse off ever since with varying degrees of success. Here are my successes –

1) my Cumberland sausages haven’t burnt AT ALL since I asked the Universe not to burn them

2) my learning to fly injuries on my face are healing up nicely after I asked the Universe to help them heal up nicely

3) Lottie hasn’t been in touch since I asked the Universe to make her go away

4) life has been quiet and free of stupid fuckers since I asked the Universe to make my life quiet and free of stupid fuckers (this one’s a bit iffy, I only asked the Universe for it last night so we’ll have to wait and see)

5) I won the £148m Euromillions jackpot last Friday

Did you read #5? Eh? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED but somehow it didn’t, somehow my £148m WAS STOLEN FROM ME and found its way DOWN SOUTH WHERE THE RICH FUCKERS LIVE.

I need to go now and talk to the Universe to find out what happened.

Aha – a thought – maybe the Universe is teasing me, like it did with Andy when it gave Wimbledon to Federer BUT THEN IT GAVE ANDY THE GOLD.

Today’s Shitey Sunday Picture Post doesn’t have many pictures because I’m too lazy to go looking for proper Shitey Sunday Picture Post pictures today so I thought I’d make a post out of some of the nice little wordy posters I’ve collected. I don’t even have to comment on them because THEY’RE MADE OF WORDS!

What have I been doing? I’ve been learning to fly. And I’ve finally mastered it.

I CAN FLY.

Not outside (because I have HERMITITIS and PEOPLE PHOBIA) but round the house from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the living room. Round and round, up and down, back and forward.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

And I did it all by myself. I self-taught myself to FLY and even a BIRD doesn’t teach itself how to fly, its mum or dad teaches it. And I didn’t even use a FLYING MANUAL.

I started in my bedroom – top of the wardrobe to the bed (soft landing except for the big brass balls on each end of the footrail but they’re balls, they only leave bruises). The trick to flying is DO NOT JUMP because jumping is FUTILE, it has nothing to do with flying EXCEPT IF YOU’RE A HARRIER JUMP JET which I’m not. You have to keep in mind that what goes up must come DOWN even faster than when it went UP (this is some sort of science and physics gobbledy-shite to do with GRAVITY that I don’t understand but the SCIENCE BOFFINS can tell you all about it if you really want to know).

No, you mustn’t jump – what you do is you SPRING. From a crouching position on top of the wardrobe you do a little SPRING (from your ankles) and as you spring into the air you flap your arms SLOWLY (this is the mistake everyone makes – they flap-flap-flap like fuckers but FLAPPING LIKE A FUCKER DOESN’T WORK FOR HUMANS) and after the first eight hundred or so times you should start to feel a LIFT into the air instead of feeling a DROP, well not exactly a LIFT but something like a lift, it’s a strange feeling that’s hard to explain to someone who’s never flown before – but don’t worry, if you ever master flying like I have you’ll know what I mean. And then, once you get this LIFT feeling EVERY SINGLE time you spring from the top of the wardrobe to the bed, and once you’ve mastered the correct speed to flap your arms – suddenly, unexpectedly, IT WILL ALL FALL INTO PLACE AND YOU’LL BE FLYING.

Practice, practice, practice – and PERSEVERANCE. That’s why humans aren’t flying all over the place, not because they CAN’T FLY, it’s because they’re TOO LAZY to put in the time required to LEARN HOW TO FLY.

Word of warning – if you’re learning how to fly in your bedroom BE CAREFUL OF YOUR SPEED OR YOU’LL CRASH INTO THE BIG BIT OF WALL ABOVE YOUR BED AND KNOCK YOURSELF OUT AND WAKE UP WITH YOUR PILLOW SOAKED IN BLOOD THAT SPURTED FROM YOUR SPLIT LIP WHEN YOUR TOP FRONT TEETH BIT INTO IT, AND YOUR NOSE WILL HURT LIKE IT’S BROKEN (IT’S NOT, IT’S SWOLLEN BUT STRAIGHT) AND YOU’LL HAVE TWO BIG BLACK EYES BECAUSE YOUR FACE HIT THE WALL FIRST, AND YOU WON’T KNOW IF YOUR LEFT WRIST IS BROKEN OR JUST SPRAINED BUT YOU STILL HAVEN’T GOT AN X-RAY MACHINE OF YOUR OWN YET TO FIND OUT BECAUSE THE DONATIONS HAVE DRIED UP AND NO ONE WILL BUY YOU ONE. AND YOU’LL HAVE A TWISTED KNEE.

But whatever pain you’re in, whatever injuries you sustain, whatever you break, sprain, bruise, cut or twist – IT’S ALL WORTH IT. It’s like childbirth or falling off a horse or a bike – you forget the agony and do it again because what it gives you in the long run is FREEDOM.

(NB – Having a baby doesn’t give you freedom, I just added the childbirth bit to show you how PAINFUL learning to fly can be).

So now I have to catch up on answering a big pile of comments and reading OVER 600 POST NOTIFICATION EMAILS (oh fuck) because I didn’t come online AT ALL during my learning to fly days because I didn’t want to lose focus but now everyone’s been posting like POSTING FUCKERS – (what happened to the QUIET POSTING PERIOD)? I thought I’d found a way to strap my laptop onto the front of me so that when I’m flying round the house I can still READ YOUR BLOGS and click LIKE and DO A COMMENT – but it doesn’t work because I forgot I NEED MY ARMS TO FLY WITH.

And I forgot to do the Big Blog weekly stats thing before I started learning how to fly – I was keeping up to them too,I was doing them every Monday (almost, I was only a day late last week, I did them on Tuesday). So I’ve fucked that one up good and proper, haven’t I?

This post has nothing to do with two pints of laudanum and a packet of crisps, please – I just couldn’t think of another title because thinking of titles is hard and I don’t usually bother thinking of them (because it’s hard) – I just bang something stupid into the title box so the post doesn’t appear in your email as a number. I AM NOT A NUMBER. I AM A DALEK (no I’m not a dalek, don’t believe everything you read).

Here’s a little haiku I’ve just made up —

WALKIES – the cruellest

word ever to be heard by

a dog with no legs

Here’s a little song I’ve just made up —

Chorus

Verse

Chorus

Second Verse

Chorus

Repeat Chorus

It’s a silent song. For people who want to sing a song but they can’t stand the sound of their own voice. Have you ever listened to yourself recorded? HORRIBLE. UNBEARABLE. I sound like a high-pitched chain-smoking faerie with throat polyps.

I might not be around much for the next day or so – things to do, people to see, you know how it is when you’re a busy-busy social DYNAMO — which I’m not, I’m lying, I don’t have ANY PEOPLE TO SEE and I’m not a SOCIAL DYNAMO but I do have something I have to do so I’ll be back posting and reading when I’ve done it – unless I need a little rant in the meantime (in an hour or so, knowing me).

and thought ‘AHA! I bet there’s some FUCKING STUPID moustaches out there and I bet if I find some I can steal Chris’s idea for a moustache post and turn it into my Shitey Sunday Picture Post because originally I was going to do something about the Olympickles again but I couldn’t be bothered because I’M BORED OUT OF MY TINY SKULL WITH THE OLYMPICKLES.’

So I did a search. And A WHOLE NEW WORLD WAS OPENED UP TO ME. A world of WEIRDY BEARDIES and MENTAL MOUSTACHES, and even though I feel just a TEENSY bit guilty about nicking Chris’s idea, I don’t feel guilty enough NOT TO USE IT.

Brace yourself, bloggy people. Prepare to be ASTONISHED. I’m not going to make any sarcastic quips today because I don’t NEED to – THE PICTURES SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES.

As a reader, I’m going to give you some examples of what NOT to do with your character’s eyes because I’M SICK OF SEEING THIS SORT OF SHITE – if I’m reading a book, or a short story, or a fictional blog post, and you’ve drawn me into the story and I like your characters and I’m reading on because I want to know what happens next, I DON’T WANT TO END UP LAUGHING AT YOU BECAUSE YOU DID SOMETHING STUPID WITH YOUR CHARACTER’S EYES. And that’s what I DO, I laugh at you – then I get MAD and I throw your book/story at the bin after I’ve jumped on it a few times, or I shut down the window that has your blog in it WITH A VERY HARD CLICK OF THE BUTTON. And why do I do that? BECAUSE YOU’VE TURNED YOUR STORY INTO BOLLOCKS WITH YOUR BAD WRITING. And then I go away and I NEVER read anything of yours EVER, EVER AGAIN.

So what do I mean by “what NOT to do with your character’s eyes”?

THIS is what I mean –

“… she rolled her eyes at him.” — We all know this one, it’s a standing joke. You should NEVER roll your character’s eyes because the immediate response of the reader is to laugh and think ‘HE ROLLED THEM BACK.’ — AND THE READER STOPS READING BECAUSE THEY THINK THE REST OF YOUR STORY WILL BE A LOAD OF WANK EVEN IF THEY’VE ENJOYED IT UP TO THAT POINT.

More examples (with the additional info of what the reader thinks) –

“She fell into his deep blue eyes” — never to be seen again, even after the MISSING posters went up around town and the police got 3 phone calls on the first day.

“Her eyes fell to the mess on the floor” — never to be seen again because without her eyes she couldn’t see to clean up.

“Her eyes danced around the room” — The Waltz? The Lambada? The Funky Chicken?

“Her eyes were deep pools of fresh, clear water” — Do you need a fishing licence? I’ve heard tales of a MASSIVE KILLER PIKE in there.

“Her eyes pierced into him” — her miraculous stabby eyes.

“Her eyes darted round the room.” — Come here, you little fuckers!!

“He pinned her to the bed with his eyes” — He’d have been better off using a Black & Decker Nail Gun, £39.99 at B&Q

“Her eyes landed on his face” — Aaarrggh, get them off, get them off!!!

“He felt her eyes on his back” — I told you, get them off me! Stop it, you sick bitch!!

“She cast her eyes to the floor” — Ooops, you’ve lost them now – they’ve rolled under the fridge.

And there are LOADS more but I can’t be bothered thinking of them right now.

Oh, and another couple of things that make me SEETHE AND WANT TO BATTER YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR BOOK even though they have nothing to do with eyes –

“She subsided onto the floor/chair/bed” – It might be TECHNICALLY CORRECT regarding definition of the word ‘subside’ but it sounds FUCKING STUPID. Don’t do it.

AND

“He fell onto the plate of chicken and ate it all within seconds.” — written when a character is overly hungry and someone presents him with a plate of chicken. NO HE DIDN’T FALL ONTO THE PLATE OF CHICKEN or the second part of the sentence would read something like “…and ended up with four stitches on his chin and a wing jammed up his left nostril.”

Eliminate all the SHITE from your work. It’s not creative, it’s not a clever use of language, it’s SHITE. Plain and simple SHITE.

I don’t know whether or not you’ve noticed that on my sidebar I have a little note giving instructions to the Press and the paparazzi. The little note has been there for a long time but if today is anything to go by I think I’ll soon need to make it more prominent at the top of the sidebar.

Because I AM FAMOUS.

ME.

LITTLE DOTTY.

LITTLE DOTTY HEADBANGER WHO NEVER COMES OUT OF HER HOUSE.

FAMOUS.

LIKE A FILM STAR!

Today, there have been not one, not two, but THREE WHOLE POSTS dedicated to ME AND MY BLOGS.

Just one picture today. Yes I know it’s a piss poor Shitey Sunday Picture Post but it’s all you’re getting this week – and it made ME laugh. But I’m going to do a video post later so that’s a bonus. And I might even do a writing post if a miracle happens. You’ll be so sick of me by the end of today you’ll wish I’d never come back. (EVIL LAUGH GOES HERE BUT I’M NOT WRITING IT BECAUSE IT LOOKS STUPID AND I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW TO SPELL IT ANYWAY – MWWUUHAHA?? MUWHAHA? MOOOOHAAHAA?)

I’m taking a break for a while – I’m going on holiday to my spare bedroom. On the wall facing the bed I’ve put up a massive poster advertising the Escher exhibition that took place at one of our local big houses a few years ago. I nicked the poster and kept it rolled up until I needed it – which is NOW. It’s one of his stairs pictures, Relativity. It’s fucking HUGE, there almost isn’t enough wall for it to go on. I could look at it for hours – and I will be looking at it for hours because that’s what you do on holiday, isn’t it -except everyone else looks at the sea and I’ll be looking at Escher’s stairs where my bedroom wall used to be.

This is the picture. You can’t get the full impact of it unless you can look at one as big as the one I’ll be looking at.

I’m taking Engleby with me – Sebastian Faulks is sick of him, he said he’s too mental and whiney for his own good. I think Sebastian’s trying to play Cupid, but Engleby isn’t my type. Unless he brings me absinthe and laudanum cocktails with little multi-coloured umbrellas and a bit of fruit in them, if he does that without drinking them en route to ME I might have a rethink about his suitability as one of my suitors.

See that little cafe on the right of the picture? It said in the brochure it has internet access so if I get the chance I’ll come online to read some blogs, but I think my holiday will be so action-packed I won’t have time to write. But you never know.

I don’t know what to write. It’s been happening more and more in the last few weeks, hence the NOTHING post and the real nothing yesterday (apart from the Big Blog Stats on the other blog but that’s just copying and pasting) and all the shite and pictures and more shite (which is nothing new because THIS WHOLE BLOG is made up of shite, but at least I used to be able to fill up a page with it). Little Emily has deserted me, Kumblant dog-fuck has disappeared to where ever he’s disappeared to, and NOTHING HAPPENS IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE FOR ME TO WRITE ABOUT. I eat Cumberland sausages, I spend HOURS of quality time with my brick, I see Branwell a couple of times a week – AND THAT’S IT. And I’ve told you those things UMPTEEN TIMES and I’m bored of telling you, and if I’M bored then you must be fucking comatose by now.

I joined Pinterest the other day to make some pretty picture boards thinking that if I had something else to piss around with it might distract me from not knowing what to write and guess what? I CAN’T WORK THE FUCKING THING. How hard can it be? Everyone does it. It’s linked to stupid Facebook and it took me AN HOUR AND A HALF to change the profile picture on Facebook BUT IT WON’T CHANGE ON PINTEREST. And I can’t upload any pictures to pin on the fucking boards, I click Browse, choose a picture, press select, and — NOTHING. So I thought, right, go back to Facebook and make the Notes From A She-Hermit page into something, it’s been sitting there for fuck knows how long – AND I COULDN’T DO A PICTURE ON THERE EITHER and if I HAD been able to do a picture I wouldn’t have been able to do anything else BECAUSE IT’S TOO FUCKING COMPLICATED.

I give up. I can’t write, I can’t do pictures, I can’t even keep up with everyone’s posts – I turn up days late to read people’s blogs but I never seem to catch up. If everyone stopped posting for a week I might have a chance BUT YOU WON’T STOP WRITING, all you bloggers who don’t have wordy block, all you do is WRITE WRITE WRITE. STOP IT. Stop writing for a week and let me catch up. Go on holiday or something, clean your house, do your garden, do some overtime at work, see if you can chew your fingernails into perfect copies of the MONA LISA, do anything but WRITE.

I daren’t take a break because I’m scared I won’t come back and I LOVE this blog but I know what I’m like, I give up on EVERYTHING eventually and if I give up on this I’ll be fucked, they might as well cart me away now, save them the bother when I lose it completely because if I don’t have the blog and all the bloggy stuff that goes with it to distract me from BEING MENTAL and from the NOISES IN MY FUCKING HEAD THAT ARE GETTING LOUDER AND LOUDER AND WORSE AND WORSE I’ll go even more mental than I am already.

Okay, rant over for today. There might be another one tomorrow but don’t bother reading it, it’s just my way of keeping me writing and blogging – at least I’ve written SOMETHING. Sorry.

I need some new shoes. I haven’t bought any for over three years (what’s the point?) but I’m sick of the ones I’ve got so I’ve decided to get some more. My problem is I didn’t realise how the fashions have changed since I contracted Hermititis and People Phobia – there are some FUCKING BEAUTIFUL shoes around and I WANT THEM ALL. But I can’t afford them all so I’ve narrowed the selection down to my absolute favourites, sensible shoes for walking the moors (when I get out of this house again), for shopping, and for general everyday wear.

Help me choose which to buy, please – trying to make a decision for myself only results in multiple panic attacks.

*

WHEELIE SHOES

I LOVE the wheelie shoes so much I couldn’t make up my mind between these

and these.

*

*

WHIRLY SHOES

On second thoughts I could probably make a pair of

these for myself by melting and remoulding a section

of my washing machine.

*

*

APOCALYPSE SHOES

Since humans began to wear shoes we’ve lost the ability to run vast distances in our bare feet.

Our feet have become SOFT and WUSSIFIED, pampered plates of tenderised meat that will be

an EXCRUTIATINGLY PAINFUL HINDRANCE to us when the APOCALYPSE comes and shoes

no longer exist. I like these because they’ll prepare us for that time.

It’s pissing it down outside. AGAIN. I don’t mind that it’s cool but WHERE’S THE FUCKING SUN? And what happened to GLOBAL WARMING? Where did that go?

Yesterday afternoon I was having a peep out of my window to see if the white van that keeps parking across the road, three houses down, had come back (it had, and it’s still there). I was watching it intently when I happened to spy, out of the corner of my third eye, a scratty, scrawny, soggy-skirted, basket-carrying little woman standing in the rain, all the way up the street on the other side of the road, staring at my house. It was HER. Little Emily. The pygmy dog-man wasn’t with her, not that I could see anyway – he might have been hiding behind the privet hedge of the nearest garden but I don’t think so, there were no signs of her talking to anyone.

I wanted a closer look but in the seconds it took me to reach across to the bookcase for my binoculars, take the caps off and move back the curtain again, she had gone.

What did she want? Why didn’t she come to the door? And what was in the basket?

Branwell is due this afternoon, I’m going to make him tell me what’s going on. If he won’t fess up I’ll kneecap him with dead ex-Simon’s cricket bat.

WordPress, you’re a pile of shite. Where’s my 400 followers badge? I’m waiting for it, checking every morning, looking forward to seeing it BUT IT ISN’T THERE and now I’m up to 416 followers and it still hasn’t arrived in the little drop-down notification fuck-box at the top of the page. WHY CAN’T I HAVE IT? Why won’t you give it to me so I can do my 400 followers showing-off post? I can’t do my 400 followers showing-off post without it in case everyone thinks I’m telling fibs when I’m NOT.

Is it because you think that when a blog reaches 400 followers the blog writer doesn’t give a shite about getting a badge? Well we DO give a shite about getting a badge, just the same as when we reach 100 followers – a badge is a badge AND I WANT MINE.

You’re a set of tossers who don’t know how to do your jobs properly. How do you think BLUE PETER survived all these years? BY GIVING OUT THEIR BLUE PETER BADGE, that’s how. And what about the Queen? If a hero gets a badge for saving lives, and then he goes on to save MORE LIVES she doesn’t NOT give him a badge, does she, she gives him ANOTHER BADGE.

I’ve made my own fucking badge. Stick that up your WordPress and smoke it.

I did a reply, then I remembered something else I wanted to add so I did another reply, then I remembered something else and got ANOTHER reply box up and started typing and typing and then I stopped and thought, oops, I better not fill up Robin’s comments with shite, plus I REALLY NEEDED TO SWEAR because these phrases ANNOY THE FUCK OUT OF ME, THEY’RE SO FUCKING STUPID. aaaahhh, that’s better. SHITEY FUCKING FUCK FUCK.

So anyway, here’s what I was going to put in the third reply box – words that people FUCK UP BADLY –

When they start every sentence with

“Generally…”

except people mistake it for ‘genuinely’

and it comes out as “Genually” (I’ve even heard this said by presenters on telly)

and they also use “genually” instead of ‘genuinely’ —

‘Genually, when I see poor people, I genually feel sorry for them.’

ARSEWIPES.

another one I’ve heard on telly LOADS OF FUCKING TIMES is

“You’ve earnt…

EARNT?

EARNT?

There’s no such word as EARNT, you dim TWATS.

DALE WANKY WINSTON ON THE LOTTERY PROGRAMME – DO NOT SAY IT AGAIN, YOU ILLITERATE ORANGE GIT.

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT – THE ABOVE SHITE ABOUT ‘EARNT’ IS AN EXAMPLE OF MY OWN STUPIDITY AND AN EXAMPLE OF TYPOMANIA BUT MY EXCUSE IS THAT IT ISN’T IN THE DICTIONARY. BUT IT IS AN ARCHAIC WORD AND I AM

He isn’t breathing. His face is white and he hasn’t got a pulse. We played Dare last night and I won.

WAKE UP BRANWELL!!

I can’t do the hammer-on-the-knees reflex test because he’s lying on the kitchen floor with his legs in the cupboard under the sink and he’s knocked over all the cleaning products – his pant legs are soaked in Fairy Liquid (Lemon flavour, I don’t like the others, they stink).

I’ll try banging my ladle on the arse end of my big stew pot, next to his ear.

Earplugs.

BANGBANGBANGBANG

fucking hell, these earplugs are shite.

WAKE UP BRANWELL, YOUR DINNER’S READY. It isn’t really but he loves his food.

BRANWELL!!

Nope, nothing.

I’ll put an onion in his eye! Hang on while I slice a bit off.

He’s got crusty bits of sleep on his eyelashes –

– I’ll open the lids with my teabag squeezer—

eeeeeeewwwwww! His eyeball looks like a DEAD FISH EYE!

Bollocks. What am I going to tell little Emily?

‘Sorry, little Emily, I’ve accidentally killed your brother.’

Uh-uh, I don’t think so.

I know, I’ll sing him a song.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight?

A-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A-WEEE, A-WEEE

A-WIMOWEH

Fucking neighbours. STOP BANGING. FUCK OFF.

A hymn – that should annoy him.

I only know one hymn and I’ve sung it before on my blog.

Ah, fuck it, everyone does reblogs of their own stuff, don’t they?

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

Aha! That did it, he’s shuddering!

BRANWELL, YOUR DAD’S HERE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA

***************

He’s gone home now and he’s not dead – well, he IS dead but you know what I mean. He’s got a VERY BAD HANGOVER, which I don’t have because I don’t drink alcohol as I’ve already said many times before – I stuck to drinking Absinthe but Branwell also necked the rum and the gin he keeps in his hipflasks.

We had a fine old time of it last night, it’s the best party I’ve been to for years (it’s the only one, but so what, it’s still the best). I might do it again for MY birthday which is in a couple of weeks or so – just to let you know, I’m accepting all cards and presents from NOW.

Oh, before I go – I spoke to Branwell about little Emily. He’s going to bring her to see me this afternoon. He said nothing about why she’s stayed away for such a long time so I dont’ know if she’s in a neck-wringer of a mood with me or what’s up with her, but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. One thing he said has been puzzling me though – he said ‘Do you truly wish to see her again? Truly, Dotty?’

I spent yesterday afternoon in a bit of a tizz, wondering why I was SO bothered about the state of my house that I felt the need to advertise for a cleaner. I don’t usually notice how manky it is – it’s a good couple of months since I was last aware of it. And then I remembered – today would have been my dead husband ex-Simon’s birthday and I was missing his marvellous house-cleaning skills! If there was one thing he was good at, it was cleaning. I’m not buying him a card though, he’s dead, it’d be a waste of money and anyway I don’t think they make cards that say ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ONE I LOVED UNTIL HE TURNED INTO A TWAT AND I HAD TO KILL HIM,‘ do they? Actually, they probably do, they make cards for everything nowadays.

Thinking back, I should have had our horoscopes done when I met him, to suss out our levels of compatability. Two Cancerians? Nah, no chance, it was DOOMED in the stars – CRAB FIGHT ALERT, CRAB FIGHT ALERT – written there for all to see and all I had to do was LOOK – but I didn’t. Idiot. He was a sulky git (have I told you that in Parts 1, 2 or 3a? I might have, I don’t know). He could sulk for days if he had a mind to – he was sulking on the day I shot him because I didn’t like the present he gave me (a reminder of what it was in case you can’t be bothered to go back and read the other posts – a fucking HOOVER for my Valentine’s Day present). It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s STILL sulking about that day – GET OVER IT, EX-SIMON, WE ALL HAVE TO DIE SOME TIME, IN SOME WAY.

Whatever age he would have been today – and I’m not telling you so don’t ask me – his mind would have been around 98 going on 150. Talk about OLD BEFORE HIS TIME – think of a cross between Edward Norton (looks), a young Robert De Niro (looks) and Victor Meldrew, Patrick the Astronomy bloke whose surname I can’t remember, and EVERY OTHER WHINGEING OLD MOANING BASTARD YOU’VE EVER KNOWN (personality) and that was ex-Simon. I did him a favour – fuck knows what he’d have been like if I’d let him live to 35.

So anyway, I’m having a little birthday party for him tonight. My guests will be ME and BRANWELL, who called round this morning for his breakfast. I don’t know where the fuck little Emily is, she’s probably eloped with the stinking pygmy dog-man, but I’ll get it out of Branwell tonight when he’s pissed and in a fugue. He thinks he’s being clever and cagey when he avoids my questions about her but I’m not STUPID, I once did a MENSA test and got all the questions RIGHT (except maths) and it only took me 3 months to complete so my IQ is fucking SKY HIGH, it’s out of the ATMOSPHERE, it’s zooming towards PLUTO (the planet, not the dog).

I did have a fleeting feeling that it might be WRONG of me to have a birthday party for ex-Simon, but Branwell said No, birthday parties are NEVER wrong, so that put my mind at rest and I’ve started cooking already. Here’s what’s on the party grub list –

Cumberlaudanum Sausage sandwiches (a HUGE pile of them)

An opium birthday cake

Another opium cake with chocolate chips

Laudanum fairy cakes with buttercream (Branwell’s favourite)

Absinthe

More Absinthe

Opium

Laudanum

A strawberry jelly (with laudanum)

A packet of Texas BBQ Pringles (left over from Christmas)

A home-made opium, laudanum, absinthe, Hellman’s Extra Light Mayonnaise DIP for us to dip the Pringles in

And I have no fear that this party will end up like the other one (that was a BAD party) because Branwell is nice and kind and won’t laugh at me when I do the AGADOO-DOO-DOO dance because I TAUGHT HIM IT and he LOVES IT.

THE CULT OF DOTTY WELCOMES YOU INTO THE FOLD. LEAVE ALL YOUR CASH IN THE BOX ON THE WALL. I NEED IT TO FEED YOU AND TO BUY THINGS FOR ME.

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I just appreciate the structural engineering - what's wrong with that?